


eyes are wide and though your soul

by manhattanvalleys



Category: One Piece
Genre: Background Monkey D. Luffy/Trafalgar Law, Explicit Sexual Content, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, Praise Kink, Suicidal Ideation, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-25 09:40:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16658750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattanvalleys/pseuds/manhattanvalleys
Summary: It’s the most response she’s gotten out of him in as long as she can remember, and as she closes her hand around his collar his breath hitches, and so she knows for sure. Thinks,Oh, and then,of course, and wonders how she didn’t see it before now.





	eyes are wide and though your soul

**Author's Note:**

> Deals with issues pertaining to suicide.

They’ve just reached the hallway at the bottom of the stairs—argument loud in the empty submarine, none of the shore leave-starved crew left aboard to overhear—when Law says, his teeth grit, “It was a calculated risk,” and Monet’s frayed fuse reaches its core.

“It almost _killed you,”_ she says, rounding on him: allows her teeth to elongate, her form to push beyond her usual confines into avian horror and make her taller still. Law backs up, reflexive, backs into the wall, and she looms over him, sure from the look on his face that at least now he’s paying attention, isn’t lost somewhere in his own head. “That thing almost broke your _spine._ Could you have fixed that for yourself, o miracle worker? Because I’m not placing any bets.”

“If it had worked—” he starts, scowling, trying to twist out of the space between her and the wall.

She cuts him off. Snarls, “ _No,”_ and pushes him bodily against it with a press of one monstrous wing, meaning to hold him there while she tells him her mind.

She does not, seeing his expression, get that far.

It’s only a momentary flicker, there and gone, much too fleeting to be caught by anyone else. But Monet has sailed the Grand Line at his side for too long to mistake it for anything but what it is: a flare of simple _want,_ startled out into the open.

It’s the most response she’s gotten out of him in as long as she can remember, and as she closes her hand around his collar—gone humanoid again, backsliding in an instant—his breath hitches, and so she knows for sure. Thinks, _Oh_ , and then, _of course_ , and wonders how she didn’t see it before now.

_Oh. That’s what you want._

And she is still angry, still terrified, still scared senseless by his recent inability to make sound decisions. By the way she can see him losing ground against the onslaught of his bone-deep misery, too well-aware that all his recent near-misses haven’t been an accident, not really.

But this—she can work with this, she thinks, seeing it now. Can show him via other means why she is _furious,_ why she could scream at him for hours, why she’s reacting this way now. Show him that he matters, that it matters to her what happens to him, and maybe make him understand that all she’d really like is for him to voice, in some small way, what it is that’s wrong.

But she knows too that this is a line she must tread carefully, with him, knows that what he wants and what is wrong sometimes come packed side-by-side, too tightly bound for him to ever ask. So she decides to test the matter, first: pushes him, far more gently, back against the wall, and leans in close once his shoulders press against it. “You’re a reckless fool,” she says, her voice low, and, “you never listen to anyone,” and, watching him carefully, “suppose I told you to get on your knees. What would you do then?”

She can see, from this close, the way his pupils dilate at the question. Feels the minute shiver that runs through him, her words an ice cube down his spine.

His eyes are very wide. She can barely hear him when he says, “Why don’t you find out?”

“Hmm,” she says, confident now that she can push him in this without something important fragmenting under the pressure. Confident that he wants this—something about it, even if it isn’t _her—_ badly enough to let her try.

She hopes, fervently, that both of them know what they’re doing.

He is waiting, she realizes, for her next move, his attention locked on her like she’s something new, something he’s never seen before. She runs the hand that isn’t tight on his collar experimentally through his hair, and draws forth a starkly animate shudder: his eyelids flicker, and he draws a shaky breath.

 _Okay,_ Monet thinks, and presses a knee between his legs, pushes forward until his thighs open and press closed around her. Holds his gaze, thinking, _Don’t look away,_ and he gets it, stares back at her right up until the moment when his hips buck suddenly against her, a gasp tearing out of his throat. “Fuck,” he says, with feeling; drops his head back against the wall, and moves against her again.

“Ah, ah,” she admonishes. Draws her fingers down the exposed stretch of his neck, saying, “None of that. Not until I say so. Do you understand?” When he doesn’t answer right away, dazed and seemingly caught between the two sensations—her touch at his neck, her thigh pressed between his legs—she says, “Answer me.”

“Y—” he sucks in another breath, struggles to find enough lucidity to answer, “yes. _Fuck_.”

“Full sentences,” says Monet, on a whim, and shifts her weight forward in the same moment—just a little, upping the pressure on his spread-open cunt.

The look he gives her then says _not fair!_ all too clearly, and she smiles blandly, thinking, _No. Not fair at all._ Gives him a chaste kiss, just a press of her lips against his, for his trouble, and when she’s pulled away he manages, with effort, “Yes. I understand.”

“Good boy,” she breathes, and the way his thighs squeeze helplessly around her at that tells her—everything, all she needs to know. He keeps himself from pushing forward again, just barely, eyes sliding shut and brow furrowed in concentration; restrains himself at her order, at her word. His hair is a mess where she’s run her hand through it—his chest heaves—his eyelashes are long and dark against the white patches on his face, and she’s certain that she’s never seen him so obviously aroused, so abruptly poised at the razor’s edge.

For a moment she longs to break character—to tell him that he is very beautiful, just then, and that he should know himself to be so, now and always, and believe that he deserves pleasure, and happiness, and good things besides. That she’s only angry with him because she can’t imagine, after all this time, living without him, even if he can live all too easily without her.

But that’s not how this works, Monet knows; knows that tenderness would break the spell, just as sure as violence.

She kisses him instead.

Deeply, this time, his mouth opening easily against hers—slow and sensual and, she knows by the twanging tension in him where he’s pressed against her, utterly torturous. She can imagine how badly he must want for relief, so readily available if he but grinds down against her, or reaches a hand down between his legs. Almost expects him to, but he doesn’t, only stands there being kissed, his hands pressed flat against the wall behind as though to keep them still. Follows her order, for all that she’s never seen him bow to any will outside his own.

When they part again his breath comes staggered, and his stare at her is imploring. Delight courses through her when he says, startlingly, “Monet, _please_ —”

“Get down on your knees,” she says firmly, and turns them around so she’s the one backed against the wall, giving him space.

He obeys at once, sinking down before her like his legs have given way, and she feels another little thrill of satisfaction. Shifts so her weight is mostly taken by the wall, relishing the sight of him on his knees, and runs her hand once more through his hair, ending in a push at the back of his head that presses his face between her open legs. “Make me come,” she commands, holding him there. “Make me come, and maybe you’ll be allowed to do the same.”

A moan escapes him, level with her sex, and it’s her turn to shiver. God, but she likes this; likes it most all with the part of her that’s still angry, the part that just wants him to listen, and trust her, and stop doing everything that makes her afraid. “Look at me,” she reminds him, “and acknowledge.”

His gaze rises again to meet hers. His pupils are blown so wide there’s hardly a sliver of brown left around the edges, and his voice shakes when he says, “Yes—god—yes.” In this position she can feel the movement of his lips against her clit even through the fabric, and she swallows hard, releases him so he can get her clothes out of the way. His hands come up, pull her pants down, work her underwear off after, and she closes her eyes and exhales slowly as he helps her step out of both, casting them aside.

She is glad for the certainty that he’s wholly here with her, now, doing this; not losing pieces of himself to the fog of foul memories that clings to him as it does to the sea on a cold morning, not wishing he could lose the rest. Awake, welded to the present by physical touch and desire, by her will alone.

When she opens her eyes again she sees him licking his kiss-swollen lips, struck by the little motion. The gust of arousal she feels at the sight shoots warm through her belly, echoed by an intense pulse between her legs. _Oh._

She seizes control again before she can give herself time think. Lowers herself with her legs spread, yanking him close, and uses her free hand to push him flush against her cunt—he gasps, mouth opening against her on the breath—and he is hot and wet and hers to use just as she pleases, _yes_ , his tongue moving at once over her clit. She grinds against him, just like that, puts a hand behind his head to brace him, thrusts her hips down _hard_.

He makes a sound that she feels all the way up her cunt, and Monet gasps and does it again, caught up in the firm slide of his tongue against the intrusion of her clit. For an instant his tongue twists and licks her deeper, and she curls over him, her own mouth falling open—feels his hands come up to grasp the backs of her thighs for support—and then all at once she’s riding him in earnest, thrusting repeatedly and unrestrained against his mouth.

He takes it readily, without protest, lets her use him as she chases her own pleasure. The sense of control leaves her giddy, dizzied, and as she fucks into his mouth she wonders anew how she could have missed that all _he_ wanted was to give his control _away._ Just then it takes all of her wits to stifle the impulse to close her hands in his hair and _pull,_ because she knows there are things with him she cannot do, things that would end this sharply, here and now.

She pulls back abruptly, catches a glimpse of him with his hair mussed even worse and his mouth and nose and face all glistening wet, the mess she’s made of him. The need in her cunt is enough to make her slide her hand back behind herself to grasp his own, guide his fingers there to relieve her in the interim, and as his fingers plunge easily inside her she takes him by the collar and hauls him back to his feet, kisses him rough.

(Thinks, for a single savage bitter instant, of a grinning boy in a straw hat, and tells the image of him in her head: _How dare you throw away the love of somebody like him. How dare you. Look at the things he’ll do for me, and he loves you enough to break himself on the cliffs of your disinterest. I can’t imagine the things he’d do for_ you. _I can’t imagine the things_ I’d _do, to have him love me as he loves you._ )

She comes just like that, Law’s hand between her legs and her tongue in his mouth, arms wound around his neck. Rides it out with her forehead pressed against his temple as she shudders through her orgasm, seized by waves of bliss that start and end at the focal point of his fingers deep inside.

Sags against him, after, breathing hard, head dropping down against his shoulder.

It takes her a moment to be aware enough again to feel his own quivering need, still unsated. She takes her time coming back, allowing herself to appreciate the unconscious press of his body against her own, the ragged note in his breathing, the frustrated desperate way his legs squeeze together. His hands come up to brush against her sides with a tension that belies his own desire, and when she lifts her head to look at him she sees that he’s biting his lip, eyes tightly closed as he struggles to maintain his self-restraint.

 _Oh, dear,_ she thinks, struck by an overwhelming fondness, and presses a kiss to the tender moue of his mouth, then against the hinge of his jaw. Has mercy at long last: “You can go ahead, now.”

“Thank god,” Law gasps, utterly strung-out, and doesn’t waste a moment more, hands coming at once to the front of his jeans to fumble with the button. His fingers are clumsy enough in his haste that Monet helps him with the zipper, then pulls back, tugging him with her so that he leans into her, burying his face against where her neck and shoulder meet.

Right into his ear, she says, “You were so good,” and knows by the way he freezes and all his breath leaves him at once that she’s timed her words just right, that he’s just sunk himself down onto his fingers. Gently, she reaches down to help him, pressing on the back of his hand through his jeans so he can push deeper into himself. He starts to move, mouth open in a damp pant against her throat, and while he fucks himself on his fingers she runs her free hand through his hair, something like a quelling caress. “So good for me. You did so well. Good boy.”

He comes almost immediately, too wound up to last any longer: his spine goes rigid, and he leans his full weight into her as his orgasm whips through him, locks him up and wrings him out. She murmurs her small praises into his ear until he’s finished, his whole body slumping bonelessly against her as all his tension washes free.

They stay that way for a while, both of them barely upright against the hallway wall, their breathing loud in the empty space.

“Was it good for you?” Monet asks, after a while, in hardly more than a whisper. Her feathered fingers are still curled in his hair, hand resting against the nape of his neck, and she cannot find it in herself to be angry still.

He shakes against her, and she realizes after a moment’s alarm that he’s laughing, stifling the helpless sound against her shoulder. Hearing him laugh eases her heart, just a little, even knowing that it doesn’t mean he’s ever truly well.

When he manages to speak again he says, with a frankness marred only by the fact that he doesn’t meet her eyes, “I’ve never come like that from sex, before.”

 _And isn’t that just another way of saying,_ ‘ _I’ve never had sex I liked, before’?_ Monet thinks, saddened. Aloud, she breathes, “First time for everything,” and pulls him closer, wings furled around them both.

“Was I,” Law says, and pauses, seeming almost like he’s shrinking away from her, for all that they’re still wrapped up in each other. It strikes Monet that he’s acutely embarrassed, and she almost opens her mouth to try and help him voice the question when he finishes with a stumble, “Was I—enough, really?”

She blinks at him, and it dawns on her that he’s asking, _Did you mean it, when you said I was good_? “I wasn’t lying, when I said all those things. I meant them.” She cards her feathered fingers through his hair again, a gentling gesture.

He eases against her, and says quietly, “Ah,” and, “good.”

After a while, she says, “It was still a stupid thing you did, taking on that marine-built nightmare. Don’t—don’t argue with me. I know that you know, and I know why you did it, and I just,” and she stops, then, miserable at the way he’s gone tense, already all wound up again into knots. Finishes quietly, far less fiercely than she intends, “I’m just so scared for you. All the time. I wish you wouldn’t do things like that.”

“It’s my choice,” Law says, just as quietly—none of his earlier ire left in him, either, and speaking not quite into her shoulder. “How to die. I thought you, of all people, might understand.”

“Yeah,” Monet says, thickly, suddenly on the precipitous verge of tears. “I know that. I do. I know it isn’t my place. I know that it’s selfish, but I still,” and as her voice melds into a useless quaver she buries her face against his shoulder in turn, her eyes stinging. Gets out only, “I still don’t want you to die, you idiot _,_ you absolute bastard, _don’t leave me here alone,"_ and bursts into sobs, unable to keep them back any longer.

He holds her, then, arms coming up around her; holds her while she cries and cries and does not stop, the dam of her anger cracked, the tide it had contained since that moment when she’d seen the decision in his eyes and gasped _no, don’t_ and watched as he did it anyway breaking through at last. Cries, her own winged arms tight around him, and calls him a bastard, and a son of a bitch, and a dozen worse names besides. He accepts them all without flinching, doesn't let her go.

Says, when she has finished shouting, and her sobs have reduced to an occasional damp sound: “I’m sorry.” She hears the self-deprecating smile in the next, spoken with his typical pitch-black wit: “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I wasn’t thinking about you at all.”

Which makes _her_ laugh, horribly, through the tears and snot. She pushes off from him, sputtering, “Oh—oh _—_ ” punches him in the arm, hard, “I _hate_ you. I hate you, how dare you make me laugh.”

He grins at her, very crookedly, and she wants to kiss him again, seeing that smile. Wants to capture the rare gleam of his humor and his still-beating heart, to memorize and record it in some way that will endure, in case she never sees it again.

While he fastens his jeans and bends to pick up her scattered clothes she says, seriously, “Please. Just—remember I’m here, once in a while? That you don’t have to do it alone.” And then, matching his mood, “I can order you around and fuck you senseless whenever you’d like, if it keeps you distracted. There’s all sorts of frustration I can stand to work out, after three years.”

He snorts, and throws her clothes back at her so the pants end up hitting her in the face. “Oh, sure,” he says, deeply acerbic, while she cries _hey!_ and looks around in the hope of something to throw at him in return. “More bruises are just what I need.”

“I mean it,” she says, pulling her clothes back on.

Law looks away—looks down the hallway—and says, “I’ll try,” very quiet. No more than that, no promises made.

“I’ll take it,” says Monet, and follows him as he heads down the hall.


End file.
